Broken Minds
by populardarling
Summary: They refused to separate in the arena. Both captured. One rescued. One tortured. Post-war Everlark


**So this is my What-If prompt to PromptsinPanem. The whole concept is what if Katniss and Peeta were captured together in the arena and the after effects they both suffer post-war. **

**I hope you enjoy, and please tell me what you think!**

**~Terri**

* * *

The rain drips down the window pane, each droplet racing the other, and she keeps track of the winners and the losers in her mind. There is always a loser; never a winner. No one ever truly wins, not even rain drops. The glass is cold against her touch, fogging where she breathes.

Drip drip drip.

It sounds like the dripping faucet in her cell. All it did was drip. She had counted how many times it would drip before they would come.

Drip drip drip

So many drips.

Maybe it was the rain outside, telling her life still existed outside the confines of the prisons under the Capital. She closes her eyes and pulls her hand away from the pane. Those thoughts are forbidden from entering her mind. She thinks of goats and flowers. Pretty primrose flowers. What did they look like again? It has been so long.

Words float through her memory, words she doesn't recognize nor recall why they are there. _A song, _her subconscious whispers. It's been so long since she's heard music. Her broken mind tries to recall any sort of melody, but all she can remember is how the rain _drip drip drip_s_. _

"You're singing," his voice gasps in shock. There is no point turning around to see who it is. It's always Peeta. "It's been so long."

She says no reply, hasn't spoken in months. The doctors, they feared the Capital had cut out her tongue, forbidding her from speaking ever again, an Avox. That would have been kinder.

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

He sets a tray of warm soup and bread down on the side table nearest to her. "You need to eat, Katniss. You've gotten so thin." The warmth feels foreign to her, too warm, unwanted. She sets the bowl he's placed in her hands down. Peeta sighs and sits in the chair across from her.

They do this every day.

He waits.

She stares.

He gets frustrated.

She stares.

He throws something.

She cries.

It's what they do well.

"Haymitch called," Peeta tells her, striking up a conversation that will never happen. "He wants to know how we're doing."

Haymitch, she says slowly in her head. Haymitch. He was their mentor, yes. He forgot all about her, leaving her there to die. She looks down at the tray of food. Soup's not her favorite. Not anymore. She picks at the bread, ripping it to pieces.

Peeta runs his hands through his hair, not sure what to say. That's alright, she doesn't know what to say either.

"Johanna wants to visit."

Johanna Mason sounds familiar. Friend or foe, she's not sure, but Peeta seems trusting of her so it must mean friend.

Crumbs cover her lap and unknown guilt fills her stomach at the sight of wasted food. Bread is important to her, to them, but she can't recall why. She holds one of the bigger pieces up to her eye, studying the white flakes. Peeta always makes fresh bread and that makes her calm, not happy, but calm. They never gave her fresh of anything.

He pulls the bread down, telling her to stop playing with her food. "Eat," he insists, holding her bowl once more. "You need to eat."

She shakes her head and wipes the bread crumbs to the floor, like a child. His anger doesn't surprise her. It thrills her because this is the Peeta she knows. It's the only thing that makes sense in her jumbled mind. He yells how he's tired of her behaving this way, but she stands up and walks to bed.

The pillows smell like fresh linens. No death. No blood. Just clean linens, and that relaxes all her tense muscles in her body.

His voice still bellows out frustrations, but Katniss is so used to falling asleep to the screams and cries of pain and agony. One angry Peeta isn't going to change much. Her cold feet snuggle under the covers and a broken melody about a meadow comes to mind. It's broken, bits and bits escaping her memory, but it's real, it's hers, and that's all that matters.

* * *

She hears him talking about her over the phone. Probably to Dr. Aurelius. Who else would he be talking to in such hushed tones?

His voice is muffled from behind her door, but she's able to hear bits of phrases like, "It's almost been a year" and "I'm trying to hold myself together." His voice is grating at her nerves and she shoves a pillow over her head to block the sound out.

Silence is a new acquaintance to her. There are times the house is so silent she screams out names of her dead family members, her dead friends, so scared that they are being tortured again. Silence means someone has died, but it can also mean peace. Peeta tells her it's not like how when they were locked away. This silence is different, safer, but he wouldn't know, wouldn't understand. They had rescued him and not her.

The medicine her doctor prescribed to make her sleep starts to kick in and her eyes start to lull back into a slumber.

A crash is heard from the hall. It wakes her up in a panic. Who is coming for her this time? What does Snow want from her now? She's so tired of interviews, of lies, but people will die if she doesn't comply. The bed is safe, a shield, and she burrows deeper into the plush comforter. He'll never find her here, and if he does then she will go to the farthest pits of her mind, thinking of goats, primroses, and dandelions. Peeta had picked some for her a week ago and that made her happy. The bright yellow heads making her think of sunshine. The sun hasn't shined. Nothing but rain for weeks.

The dripping drives her mad. There is no rhyme or reason for the drips like the faucet. It's all out of order, out of sync. Peeta got mad when she threw their plant book out the window to stop the annoying pattering.

The door opens and it's not Snow or a Peacekeeper. It's Peeta. Good, sweet Peeta. He's breathing heavily and her eyes follow his figure as it makes its way closer to her. His weight on the bed causes her to slide closer to him and she burrows deeper into the covers in fear.

This is it, isn't it? Peeta's going to leave because of all the terrible deeds she's committed. It's what she deserves, but it doesn't make the fear of rejection any less.

He sighs, running his scarred hand up and down the blue comforter. "Dr. Aurelius thinks we should talk about it." He doesn't say what the "it" is, but she knows. Peeta wants to talk about their imprisonment in the Capital.

She can already feel herself drawing back into the last safe place of her mind.

His hand grasps hers, and Katniss can see him, but his lips move without sound. It's impossible to comprehend what he is saying she's so gone.

His hand feels nice. It's big and warm and that makes her feel safe.

She scoots closer to him, moving his hand along her cheek.

"I understand we've both been through hell and back," Peeta sighs, and she wonders what he's been talking about. All that matters is his hand. He's not going to leave her, and he doesn't seem mad that she's a terrible person, the reason so many are dead. "I want us to be able to talk about this. He says it will help."

"No one can help." Her voice cracks from disuse, her first words in almost a year, and turns around in the bed. His touch doesn't feel so comforting anymore.

He calls her name, repeating again what he has just said, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. Peeta even gets so frustrated that he hits the bed, missing her leg by an inch, and exclaims how childish she's being.

"I was in there, too!" he reminds her and she already knows.

There is no need for this.

"I was tortured and prodded at, too, Katniss. Doesn't it matter that I might need help?" He sounds so defeated, so lost, that she peeks her head out from under the covers, looks over her shoulder. His clothes are rumpled, like he's been in them for days, and maybe he has. She can't recall the last time she's changed out of her nightgown. It doesn't matter, clothes. They don't matter.

She blinks at him, waiting for him to speak, to cry, to do something.

Peeta sighs again and she watches him leave.

Tears slide down her cheeks as the door slams shut and she knew he'd leave her eventually.

Isn't that what everyone does?

They leave because she's worthless, not worth staying with, a disappointment.

* * *

The room is dark, dank when her eyes open. Her bed smells like urine and vomit, and the distant moans of highly secured prisoners like herself are heard in the distance. Her body shoots up in alert, looking around at her dingy cell. Why is she back here? How did she get here? Will it never end?

Peeta's name is whispered on her lips, but no one comes.

Her body slinks to the floor, the cold cement sending shivers up her spine, and she slowly crawls on all fours to the bars. The bars keeping her caged in here shine despite the darkness, metallic-like. Carefully, hesitantly, she brings her hand to the bar and a volt of electricity jolts her away. Every fiber in her shakes from the current.

They had never come for her.

The war wasn't over.

She was still in the Capital, a pawn, a prisoner.

"Please," she cries out, pounding her fists into her head. "Make it stop!"

Footsteps echo, coming closer to her cell, and she hurries to the cot, needing to hide. Every hair is standing up she's so nervous and the footsteps get closer and closer.

_Click click click. _

Buttons are pressed to turn off the electricity to her cage and President Snow comes in view, grinning his wicked grin.

"Miss Everdeen, I'm so pleased to see you are up."

The thought of being scared of this man, to _show _she's scared of him, makes her want to vomit, but he's killed her sister, her mother, District 12. Everyone she cares about. There are no chances taken with this sinister man.

She stares at him, wondering what he wants.

"I wanted to let you know that we've recaptured Mr. Mellark and many of your rebellious friends. All executed within the hour of their capture." He adjusts the white rose in his lapel and the smell causes her to throw up a tiny bit in her mouth. "They informed me that you _do_ know information on the rebellion." He snaps his fingers and two Peacekeepers are there instantly. "Take her to the Interrogation Room."

The guards yank her from her bed, their hold on her almost bone crushing, and Snow has to tell them to be kind to the dear Mockingjay. "She is a symbol, you know," he snickers.

Tears roll down her face as they drag her to the horrid room, the torture room. "I don't _know _anything! I don't _know _anything!" she screams until her throat is used up.

Her body thrashes against their hold as they tie her to the table, stick the needles in her arms, but she is so tired, so weak. There's no point.

Snow walks in, a blur behind the tears, and tells her, "Katniss, it's time to wake up! Katniss!"

Her mind is boggled.

What?

"Katniss," the man says again. "It's time to wake up," and as her vision clears, it's not Snow that's talking to her; it's Peeta. And she's not strapped to an examination table. She's in her bed, safe.

He kisses her tears and she holds on tightly to him, never wanting to let go.

"It's not real," he whispers into her hair, her neck. "It's not real."

"Our game," her voice chokes out, still upset over her nightmare. Her arms cling tighter around Peeta's neck, almost blocking off his airway. "It was so real," she cries. "The screams, the needles..."

He kisses her forehead. "Not real," he repeats.

They situate themselves in her bed. Peeta leaning against the headboard; Katniss wrapped in his arms, using his body as a pillow.

She never speaks of her dreams in details, and he never asks. It's as though it's an unspoken rule to never talk about their past tortures. He had stopped trying to talk about it months ago, and for that, she's relieved.

He talks about dandelions, bread, pleasant things that don't remind her of the war. She likes the way he talks, the way his chest stirs when he speaks in his low voice. Her body presses closer to his as she listens to his baking fiasco of the day.

It's pointless.

It's silly.

It's perfect.

* * *

They grow closer in the following months, and everything is going right. Peeta is baking, having fewer episodes of anger, and her, well she's been leaving her room more, even going out to sit on the front porch every now and then.

She likes sitting outside. The front porch is all she can handle right now, but on good days, days when she feels human, more like Katniss, she'll walk around the Victor's Village. Those days are far and few, but they happen on occasions.

The sun's been out, the weather gorgeous, and she wants to believe her good moods are because of the stunning weather. She feels more alive, talking more than she has been in the past year. Things are going right for once.

But just like everything in her life, the shoe has to drop at some point.

Peeta tells her he has to leave, something for the new government that he's been trying to get out of for weeks but can't. He tells her it will only be two weeks, that he'll call every day, but she doesn't believe him

She had been doing so well, thought they had been doing so well.

It was nice while it lasted.

The house is too big, too empty. Why would anyone need such a big house when most Victors lived on their own? Such waste.

She tries to do her routine of getting up, changing, and sitting on the porch, but it's not the same without Peeta.

Her old habits come back.

Her bed is safer, better, there's no point in leaving it. And even if she wanted to, it was as though restraints had tied her down. She couldn't move, she couldn't think.

There was no point.

The phone rings and rings. She should answer it, she really should. It's Peeta checking up on her, but it takes too much energy to move, to care.

She lets it rings.

Little sleep is accomplished while Peeta is away, and it feels like months when he finally comes home to her. He's mad, tells her he is for her ignoring all his phone calls. She should care about hurting his feelings, but she doesn't. She rolls toward the wall and watches the droplets spatter on their brand new window.

It's raining again and she feels like crying.

* * *

Weeks go by and nothing improves.

Peeta tries to get her back into their routine. "We were doing so well," he tells her, trying to get her out of bed. "So well, Katniss. Let's not have setbacks now."

Her body feels like cement. It cannot move, it cannot float. It just sits there, and that's all she has the motivation to do.

Her nightmares haunt her during the day. Every creak and groan her house makes she's sure this is it. Snow will take her back, torture her until her mind screams for it to stop. He'll never kill her, though. That's far too kind and what kind of example would that be to the rebellion?

One day she tries to end it all. Her mind has been racing at all the possibilities. She could hang herself, yes, that could be done, but her fingers feel like jelly when she tries to knot the sheets into a noose. Peeta keeps a close eye on their medication. There is no way she'd get past him.

She wants to die, is ready to die. Doesn't she deserve at least one ounce of kindness?

_Glass_, she thinks. She'll cut her wrists and play a game.

Who can find her first: Peeta or death?

It sounds like a fun game and she hopes death comes first.

He gets mad at the broken mirror (He gets mad over the slightest things these days). All she can do is apologize profusely for the damage, hiding one of the sharper edges in the sleeve of her shirt. Her apology settles him down.

"Just be more careful," Peeta sighs, kissing her gently on the forehead.

It hurts to hear him care, but it's not real. She knows that; she's seen that. Everything people do for her is out of pity now, and it's pity she can't stand. It's one thing she remembers from Katniss.

She waits for him to leave on his bread runs to start. Her body is so numb that the slices up her wrists make no difference to her. No flinches, no cries of pain. When was the last time she reacted to pain? How inhuman she feels. The blood gushes out and the dark red oozing down her arms makes her vomit on the floor. The clock rings, telling her Peeta will be home soon; he's always home exactly twenty minutes after the ring. So dependent Peeta is.

Where should she hide?

_The basement _her mind tells her. Yes, that's a good place to die. She went to a basement after the Quarter Quell announcement, expecting to die. Now she is and that seems fitting. A full circle.

She follows the trail of primroses to the basement. Prim. She'll be with her sister soon, yes. An apology _will _be made for all the torture Snow put her little sister through because she's a terrible person. The basement is cold⎯ winter's on its way⎯ and she hears her name being called to the darkest corner. Everything is spinning and she falls a lot, but her body curls under the racks of clothing Cinna has designed for her, waiting to die.

Death, please come?

* * *

Peeta came home early.

Peeta followed the trail of blood.

Peeta saved her.

The bastard.

"How are you feeling today?" Dr. Aurelius asks her. He's been at their house for months, helping them both "heal." He needs to go.

She shrugs, her typical response to their daily visits.

"Is Katniss here today?" The old man is kind, patient, but he asks too many questions for her liking. Too many personal questions. Who cares?

She stares at him incredulously. "She's dead."

The sun is out, shining through the window of the small living room they hold their sessions in, and she wants to go outside so much. Her body yearns for the summer breeze, but sessions come first and Dr. Aurelius says she gets too distracted outside.

"You're Katniss." Everyone keeps telling her this, but it makes no difference. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Katniss Everdeen was killed in the Capital. It's war, after all. Someone has to die.

"I don't know who I am," she confesses and he tells her that's enough for today.

* * *

The dirt feels nice under her fingertips. It's soft and warm and reminds her of life. Peeta hands her a primrose bush and together they plant it in the front of her house.

"Prim would have been sixteen today," Katniss tells him in a daze. His dirt stained hand covers hers and she looks up at him. It's their sign to come back.

Their afternoon is a typical one, a routine they started soon after Dr. Aurelius left back for the Capital. Plant, eat a small lunch, sit on the porch, maybe read a book, and fall asleep until both are so hungry that they rush to the kitchen for dinner. It's nothing special, but it keeps her there, keeps her mind focused on the here and now.

Nights are the worst.

Her nightmares grow darker, more gruesome. Sometimes she relives tragedies she experienced like the death of her sweet, little sister. Prim didn't deserve to die. She didn't deserve to be electrocuted to death. Other times Katniss dreams of Snow taking Peeta away, killing him right in front of her because of those berries. It always ends up going to that. Those damn berries.

Her throat is always sore in the mornings and Peeta is always so tired when she wakes. He doesn't get much sleep her nightmares are so frequent. At first she had felt so guilty for robbing him of his sleep, but he always insisted it didn't matter so long as she was getting sleep. It doesn't bother her so much now, and she is so thankful to have Peeta there to hold her, to wake her from her nightly tortures.

She is so selfish.

* * *

Her health starts to get better.

Peeta even tells her so.

People are finally moving back to 12 and Katniss is so happy to go out and help with reconstructing their District. Her hands are useful. There is a purpose to get up in the morning. Peeta always comes along, wanting to start plans on rebuilding his family's bakery and together they start doing just that.

Her body feels light, full of energy she hasn't experienced since before the games. It's so nice not to feel like sinking cement. So nice.

Months go by and the bakery is finally looking like a bakery. Peeta is able to find himself through going back to his baking roots, but what about her? She watches him go each morning, watches from her window on the second floor. Envy courses through her because he is able to return back to his life. His parents and brothers may have perished, but Peeta still has memories of them. All her memories have been tainted, ruined for her. Thoughts of Prim come up and all Katniss can see is the electricity rushing through her sister's body, Prim's precious face bruised and bleeding. Rarely, but sometimes thoughts of her mother comes up and her blood runs cold, imagining her mother's blood dripping into her cell after the Peacekeepers beat her to a bloody pulp. All memories tainted. Peeta's lucky he never had to see his family suffer. Why does he get to have it all?

There he goes, off to the bakery. He stops at their gate and looks back, feeling her eyes on him. His eyes land on her window and Katniss hides herself behind the curtain. The offer of joining him is always on the table, always there for her to take, but she doesn't want to bake. That's Peeta's time, not hers. He leaves, won't be home for hours, and she roams the house in a daze.

Today is not a good day and she wants nothing more than to sleep, but all her mind can think about is Peeta and his bakery. The bakery and Peeta. Around and around the two thoughts play until she is so restless she must leave the house. Yes, that is it! She used to hunt. Are her arrows and bow still safe? They rest in the small hall closet downstairs and a shrill of broken laughter leaves her. Yes, hunting will clear her mind, will make her feel useful. It is perfect.

She hunts.

It is not her best hunt. Her hands are out of use and are bleeding and chapped by the end, but it is like tying your shoes. You never truly forget the movements they are so ingrained. Everything hurts, everything is sore, but her smile is so big when she walks through the front door. Her reflection in the foyer mirror makes her seem insane⎯ her eyes so wide, her hair still in knots from sleep, and her smile does seem a bit off hinge, but that doesn't matter.

Katniss feels like a part of her is returning.

Peeta is waiting for her in the living room. It must be later than she'd thought. "Where have you been?" He gives her no opportunity to answer, already taking in her muddy boots and bow in hand. "You didn't even leave a note!"

"I didn't kno⎯"

"⎯Of course you didn't." His tone is hard, judgmental.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snaps.

"You tried to kill yourself over a year ago," he reminds her and she flinches at the accusation. It has been a year since the incident, but there have been so many improvements. She's gotten better. "For all I knew you went to the woods to kill yourself."

Her hand grips the bow, frustration at his lack of faith in her, of trust, bubbling up. "I've been getting better. I'm fine."

"You're sick," he sighs. "We're both sick."

"I'm _fine," _she stresses.

"You're not!" argues Peeta. "You've been locked upstairs for two weeks now. That's not being fine."

"_Don't_," she points at him in anger when he takes a step closer to her. "Don't you dare tell me whether I'm fine or not. You don't have that right."

They argue until something is broken, smashed across the room to smithereens. He shouts how she's not stable enough to handle a weapon; she argues how maybe he's not stable enough to be around an oven. Argue and argue and argue. They argue so much that her head starts to throb from how angry she is at him. And to think she had been so happy when coming in! They argue until Katniss throws him out of her house, telling him not to return until he got his head back on straight.

The night is hard, lonely. The room creaks. The shadows come.

Her screams choke her awake and she's in a corner. How did she get here? Tears choke her as the memories of the horrors she'd witnessed in the Interrogation Room tease her, mock her. They'll never go away, and no matter how many pills she is forced to take the worry of being taken to that room again will never die, will never fade.

The thought of running to Peeta is tempting, and she almost does it. Almost. His words hurt her tonight, hurt her more than anything Snow could throw at her, because despite her worry on him leaving her, she needed him, wanted him. He can't just leave.

* * *

Her mind starts to see things, starts to play tricks on her. It's the lack of sleep, she knows it is, but when Prim comes to her, asking if she wants to play outside in the grass, how could Katniss resist? They play and laugh and Prim has the looks of the little girl who she could protect from anything in the world.

"I missed you, little duck," Katniss informs her little sister, swinging their linked hands in the air. "I'm so glad you're back."

Prim giggles, the twinkle in her blue eyes shimmering in the sun. They don't go in until the sun is long gone and Prim tells her she'll see her tomorrow. She cries at the departure of her sister, cries until there are no tears left. She passes out, curled in a ball by the window, and in the morning Prim is there, waiting.

"I want to see the lake," she asks in the most polite way imaginable.

And Katniss obliges happily.

* * *

Peeta apologizes with a loaf of bread. He knocks on her door weeks later and holds it out as a peace offering. "If you say you're fine then you are." She accepts his offering, even giving him a small peck on the cheek.

Their routine continues, except this time sweet little Primrose follows. She tells her never to tell Peeta of her, that she'll go away for good if Katniss tells. Mum is the word.

Katniss hunts. Prim plays. Peeta bakes.

She invites him back to her bed, feeling more confident now that her sister is back with her, and they experiment different sexual positions together. It never would have dawned on her that Peeta was rough in bed, but with each thrust he would mutter in a deep, raspy voice that he's wanted to fuck her for so long. It hurts, but she's come to learn that pain means real, and she accepts that. He always tells her at the end that he loves her and for brief seconds, she pretends he really means it, that it's enough to have him stay.

Sleep is still rough, still nerve wracking, but as long as she can feel him⎯ on him, near him, it doesn't matter⎯ her dreams turn to blackness, her body more rested in the mornings.

It slips. She didn't mean it, but Peeta asks who she is talking to in the bedroom.

"Prim," she tells him like it's the most common sense thing in the world. "She's telling me a story about a sweet little goat. Isn't that so sweet?"

Dr. Aurelius sends new medication.

Prim vanishes and it's like losing her sister all over again.

* * *

The Interrogation Room were the three words that could send sobs racking through her body. It was where she witnessed so many die because of her, it was where Snow punished her, broke her, because she didn't feel like Katniss Everdeen anymore. Katniss Everdeen died the day Prim's body sagged on the table across from her, lifeless, dead. Prim didn't even look like Prim when she passed; her body was bloated with abuse, her face unrecognizable, and her pretty blonde hair ripped from her scalp each time Katniss refused to help Snow fight against the Rebellion.

_Why should I?_ she had argued when Snow first came to her with the script. He revealed what was hidden behind the two curtains and every cell in her body froze in terror at the realization that Prim and Gale were lying unconscious across from her, strapped to their own tables.

"The choice is entirely up to you, Miss Everdeen," Snow told her. "You either can comply to my demands, be the voice against the Rebellion with Mr. Mellark, or you can be the cause of death between your dear little sister who you've worked so hard to protect and your _cousin." _He presses a button and the two wake up with gut-wrenching screams coming from their mouths, and the light coursing through them both make her scream, tears streaming down her face, begging him to stop. "I'm glad you and Mr. Mellark have finally learned your place in these games," Snow smirked, pressing the button again.

She was so naive into believing him.

So naive to think that wicked man would not harm them if she did everything he said.

Prim and Gale left her after months of torture.

Peeta left her because she didn't deserve to be rescued.

"Everyone leaves a worthless cause," the voices would repeat over and over until she believed it. She was worthless.

A broken melody breaks through her chapped lips as she waits to die in the woods. "Are you, are you..." she repeats over and over again. It's all she remembers, those two words.

The smell lingers, making her dry heave until her body is so sore it can't possibly sit up. Snow must be watching. He always is. Cameras, everywhere. All the time. There is never a moment's peace with him. He wins, she finally admits to no one. He wins.

Her arrow is sharp and her finger hits it continuously until little droplets of blood start to spot at the tip. Her mother's blood was so red, just like hers. Maybe they did share something in common after all. She continues to try and sing the rest of the song, but everything is mixed around and when she closes her eyes, she swears she's on the cement floor again, listening to the tiny _drips_.

So close they were to rescuing her. If only the solider rescuing her could run faster than the Peacekeeper. They could have escaped if he could run as fast as Finnick and Peeta. It must have been their intent to give her the slower runner, to have her never be rescued. It didn't hurt her too much when Snow forced her to watch his death.

The smell of death reminds her of Prim, of Gale. She wants to tell them how sorry she is for getting them into this mess. She curses her father for teaching her about Nightlock. The berries is what caused all of this; they were why so many died and left. If she could go back in time and die in the arena she would.

Prim would still be alive.

Gale would still be alive.

Her mother would still be alive.

And Peeta, well Peeta would be dead with her. Because she's selfish and refuses to see it any other way.

Footsteps crunch in the distance and she knows it's Snow. Who can he kill for her trying to escape? He'll never kill her; he's told her this many times. "You are now our example, Miss Everdeen," he would tell her when she would beg for them to just kill her, kill her to make the videos stop. "An example of why we want to play the rules of the game. Isn't this fun? Next video." Her body curls into itself because the videos will probably be her punishment. They are so terrible, watching so many deaths, so many sacrifices for her. All for her. Someone like her doesn't deserve anything. It was a waste. She's a waste.

A worthless cause.

The footsteps are closer, only a few feet away from her now, and when the arms scoop her up in an embrace she starts to cry.

"Not the videos!" she mutters into his chest. "I'll listen; I'll do whatever you say. I promise!"

He murmurs "Not real" into her hair which makes her cry harder.

* * *

Dr. Aurelius tells them the smell of blood and rain caused her to relapse, caused her memory to remember her imprisonment. It's quite common with patients who've experienced traumatic events. Quite common.

Peeta becomes more protective of her, refusing to let her out of his sight. He moves his bakery to her house, saying how he'd rather not have to walk in this heat, how it bothers his leg.

Her house starts to feel like a cage.

There are only so many places she can go before going insane.

Voices start to whisper terrible things to her, saying how terrible she is, how no one wants her, needs her, how she's the reason Prim's dead. The voices play in her head constantly, making her on edge. She starts to snap at Peeta for the smallest things and he snaps back. They fight more and more until she throws a frying pan at his head. He's stolen her freedom, she decides, or was it the voices? He doesn't let her leave this new prison, becomes paranoid himself.

They don't leave. Not for a very long time.

It's just her, Peeta, and the voices.

She starts to think of ways to kill him, so she can escape, but when he holds her close at night, for that's all they do in bed now, she is thankful for him, doesn't want him to leave her. She'll kill him if he tries.

Seeing him standing on the front porch for the first in months leaves an unsettling feeling in her stomach as she watches him gulp in the fresh, clean air. The small voices whisper how he plans on leaving her now, tired of her. It's the same voices that haunt her every waking moment, tell her terrible, truthful things while watching the videos.

She hates him. She loves him. She needs him.

The voices jumble around her head and she pounds on it until he pulls her hands away, saying it's time to rest.

He says goodnight after tucking them in and it sounds like a goodbye.

She can't let that happen.

_Kill him, _the voices whisper while he snores. _Kill him and he'll never leave, never think you're worthless. Kill him..._

* * *

"Poor little Mockingjay," everyone whispers now when they gossip in town. Did you hear? She's gone insane, hearing voices and seeing things, and stabbed her lover, her husband, Peeta Mellark, the boy with words, to death with an arrow.

Poor little Mockingjay. She's gone and killed the last person who was close to her, whispering how he'll never leave her now.

Poor little Mockingjay is locked somewhere padded in the Capital now, somewhere safe where she can't harm a bug.

Poor little Mockingjay


End file.
